nor truth in a crowded shop
by too-much-like-Luna
Summary: After 'Swan Song' Castiel was put back together in an identical, but new, vessel. Jimmy Novak was sent back to his family, but no one taught him how to live again after being a vessel. Novak family gen.


**nor truth in a crowded shop **| Supernatural | Jimmy Novak, Claire Novak, Gen | Self-harm (burns) |

_For love doesn't come in boxes _

_Nor truth in a crowded shop _

_Those red ribbon foxes are not so easy caught _

_But the search it never stops _

_For faith doesn't come in boxes _

_Nor God in your silver cross _

_Those red ribbon foxes are not so easy caught _

_But the search goes on and on _

_The search it never stops_

_**-Red Ribbon Foxes by A Fine Frenzy**_

* * *

You leave the trench-coat in the back of your closet, and you buy new suits until all your clothes feel like they belong to you again. You go to work and stare at numbers until you can remember English, and not see the shadow of Enochian symbols. Claire says, "Tell me a story, Daddy," likes she's a toddler again, seeking comfort in the innocence of childhood traditions, and your throat closes around the words of fairytales so you tell her tales of talking mice instead. Amelia smiles at you, and you smile back like you've never forgotten how. It is all such a lovely lie.

You go to a psychologist, because that is what people do, and then you stare at her for ten minutes before walking out the door, laughing sardonically. You never tell Amelia. There are too many things Amelia shouldn't know.

Claire comes to you one morning, nestles beside you on the couch, whispers so softly you can barely hear her "I can still hear his voice, sometimes." And you clutch her tighter than ever before, because you lost her long ago. You whisper "I do too," but she doesn't hear you over the sound of the cartoons neither of you like, and you're glad, because at some point the line between you and Castiel became blurred, and suits can only tell half a lie.

Half a year later, and Amelia finds the trench-coat, and you find her on the floor of the master bedroom, clutching it to her chest and staring at the wall.

"Would you leave us again?" she asks, and Claire stumbles into the doorway behind you. She has cut her hair, painted her nails black. Amelia looks at you with tears streaming down her face and you turn away, catching Claire's eyes briefly as you do. Amelia doesn't need to know that you would, you and Claire both. You would both leave Amelia at the slightest indication that the voice you hear is anything more than your own yearning. You think she knows, anyway. You think she knew the minute she lost you both—as the golden light faded from Claire's eyes and moved to yours. You would feel sorry for her, but some emotions still seem foreign.

* * *

It's the day of Claire's graduation, and you find the trench-coat folded neatly on her bed beside a stack of books. She doesn't need to tell you that she's leaving. It's something you've both wanted since you saw the news reports of a man in a trench-coat wreaking havoc, but she's the only one who will escape.

"I have to go," she says from the doorway behind you, and her eyes are startlingly old against the navy of the graduation gown.

"Of course," you say, stilted, and she smiles and packs her bags.

Your parting words are "Will you be hunting?"

Claire doesn't answer, but you don't need her to. She was always going to wonder what it would feel like to kill monsters herself, with nothing between her and death but a blade or a gun, holy water or fire. She walks away, and your hands clench with jealousy.

* * *

At night you lie beside your wife, fully dressed, and think of an angel that wears your face, and you wonder if Castiel is lonely, in the body that looks like yours. You eat opposite your wife, silently, and you carve Enochian into the table with your fingernails. You scribble with a pen and remember the rush of power as Grace flowed through your body. You sleep and dream of wings.

You remember finding a lighter in Claire's pocket, a month after your return. She said "I don't smoke," and you had shrugged, the motion still novel. And then she had said, "I keep it because fire is the only thing that comes close," and you hadn't needed to ask to what. You build a bonfire in the yard, now, and Amelia will be angry when she comes home so you wonder, idly, whether this will mean the dissolution of your marriage. You feed the fire with wood you had collected weeks ago, and old newspapers and books you've forgotten to read. You stare at the sky for an hour, as though the fire is a beacon and Castiel would bother to answer it.

Amelia pulls into the driveway, and sits in her car for several minutes before getting out, shoulders hunched and eyes resigned.

"Jimmy," she sighs. "Why?"

"It's the best replacement I've found."

She stands beside you. "He felt like fire?" she asks—and you've never talked about this, as though it is a secret to be kept.

"No." you say, staring into the flames. "He felt like everything."

Amelia lowers her head, clutches at her chest.

"Pain and hope and love and anger and fear," you murmur, absently. "Everything. He felt like everything."

A tear traces a path down Amelia's ageing cheek. Once, you would have wrapped your arms around her, or taken her hands in yours to offer strength. Instead, you hold your hands over the fire until the flames curl around them, teasing with their touch, and Amelia sobs but doesn't stop you. You lower your hands until the flames cover them, pain spreading through your body like Grace.

It is not enough.


End file.
